A Loyal Character Dancer

her back, her hair disheveled, and her face scratched, no longer young and vivacious. Her top was wrinkled, one strap dangled from her shoulder, and she must have lost her slippers in the scuffle, so she walked barefoot into the street.
     
    “Did you know the police would come?” Catherine asked.
     
    “No, but while you were examining the watches, I saw a plainclothes man outside.”
     
    “Did they come for us?”
     
    “It’s possible. If an American were caught here with a heap of purchases, it might be played as a political card.”
     
    He was in no position to tell her what else he suspected, though he saw the clouds of suspicion gathering in her eyes.
     
    “But we could have left the store in a normal way,” she said skeptically. “Why all the drama—moving behind the fitting curtain, leaving through the back door, and running across the alley in the rain.”
     
    “I wanted them to believe we were still behind the curtain.”
     
    “For such a long time,” she said, blushing slightly in spite of herself.
     
    Suddenly, he thought he saw a familiar figure in the crowd, a short cop with a walkie-talkie in his hand. Then he found that it was not Qian. Yet the man with the light green cell phone had appeared outside Moscow Suburb after Qian’s call.
     
    A middle-aged customer at the next table, pointing his fingers at the salesgirl, burst out, “What a worn-out shoe!”
     
    Oriole must have stepped into a puddle. She left a line of wet footprints behind her.
     
    “What does he mean?” Catherine appeared puzzled. “She is barefoot.”
     
    “It’s slang, meaning ‘hussy’ or ‘prostitute.’ A worn-out shoe in the sense that it has been worn by so many people, and so many times.”
     
    “Is she engaged in prostitution?”
     
    “I don’t know. The business of this street is not legitimate. So people imagine things.”
     
    “Will she get into serious trouble?”
     
    “A few months or a few years. It depends on the political climate. If our government finds it politically necessary to highlight the action taken against those fakes, she will suffer. Perhaps it’s the same with your government’s emphasis on Feng’s case?”
     
    “There’s nothing you can do about it?” she said.
     
    “Nothing,” he echoed, though he was sorry for Oriole. The raid had been intended to catch them, he was sure of it. The girl had been caught instead. She should be punished for her business practices, but not like this.
     
    A war had been declared, and there were casualties already. First Qiao, now Oriole. The chief inspector was still in the dark, however, with no certainty as to whom he was fighting.
     
    Oriole was already near the end of the street.
     
    Behind her, the line of her wet footprints was already disappearing.
     
    In the eleventh century, Su Dongpo had come up with the famous image: Life is like the footprint left by a solitary crane in the snow, visible for one moment, and then gone.
     
    Lines sometimes came to Chen in the most difficult situations. He did not know how he was able to feel poetic when gangsters were closing in on him. At that instant something else flashed through his mind.
     
    “Let’s go, Catherine.” He stood up, took her hand, and dragged her downstairs.
     
    “Where?”
     
    “I have to hurry back to the bureau. Something urgent. I’ve had an idea. Sorry, I’ll call you later.”

Chapter 25
     
     
    S
    everal hours later, Chen tried to reach Catherine by phone without success. Nevertheless, he went up to her room hoping to find her.
     
    At his first knock, the door opened. She was wearing the scarlet silk robe embroidered with the golden dragon, barelegged and barefoot. She was drying her hair with a towel.
     
    He was at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, Inspector Rohn.”
     
    “Come on in.”
     
    “Sorry to arrive so late,” he said. “I called you several times. I wasn’t sure you were in.”
     
    “Don’t keep on apologizing. I was taking a shower. You are a welcome guest here, just as I am a distinguished guest of your bureau,” she said, motioning him to sit on the couch. “What would you like to drink?”
     
    “Water, please.”
     
    She went to the small refrigerator and came back with a bottle of spring water for him. “Something important has come up, I guess?”
     
    “Yes.” He produced a sheet of paper from his briefcase.
     
    “What’s that?” She took a quick look at the first few lines.
     
    “A poem from